


tell me it was for the hunger

by blackkat



Series: Bleach Yōkai Verse [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Spirits, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Thirty years after Aizen's fall, Ichigo finds a desperate, injured enemy in the Menos Forest. The only possible thing to do is offer his help.





	tell me it was for the hunger

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts to do a Bleach version of my Naruto yokai-blood AU, and the first lovely and enthusiastic person threw Starrk/Ichigo at me, reminding me of just how deep I am in this hell. RIP me.

“It’s been a while,” Rukia says, tugging her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders as the wind whips past them. The white sand isn’t stirring, but Ichigo would almost feel better if it did; he doesn’t want a sandstorm, but the complete lack of motion from the dunes is somehow eerier than any building storm would be.

“Not long enough,” Ichigo mutters, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the gusts. The ruins of Las Noches are on the horizon, and to the east is the edge of the Menos Forest. Akon’s disturbances could be in either place, and Ichigo doesn’t exactly want to have to spend long enough here to search both of them. If he does, Grimmjow will inevitably find him, and that’s just a pain all over. Grimmjow makes for a good ally, but all the challenges make Ichigo’s instincts go more than a little haywire. He doesn’t want to end up yokai-married to someone who’s already taken just because Grimmjow tried to kick his ass one time too many. He doesn’t _think_ Nel would take offense, but—better not to test it, when evolved Hollows are so close to their yokai sides already.

With a snort, Rukia elbows him in the ribs. More because it’s all she can reach than because it’s where she’s aiming, but Ichigo isn’t about to _say_ that. He likes his toes attached. “Scared?” she needles. “Ulquiorra isn’t around to beat you up this time, Ichigo, don’t worry.”

“That was thirty years ago!” Ichigo protests. “And I beat him, so shut up.”

Rukia just gives him an evil, innocent smile. “Just worried about your constitution,” she says breezily. “It wouldn’t do to have the captain of the Eighth faint like a little girl.”

“As if you’ve ever fainted in your _life_,” Ichigo mutters. When Rukia beams, he rolls his eyes and moves past her, sliding down the dune and then climbing the next one. It’s taller, with a better view of the area, and he pauses there to look for any signs of life. If there are any, though, he can’t spot them; there isn’t even the heavy thrum of reiatsu from the Guardian of the Sands who was here last time. Of course, there’s every chance that Harribel chased him off, since he was loyal to Aizen.

“I seem to recall _you_ fainting several times over the years,” Rukia says sweetly, catching up and starting forward to the next dune. “Maybe I should change it to _like a little boy_.”

“Shouldn’t a captain have more dignity?” Ichigo retorts. “Or _any_?”

“I think you’d be the one in the position to answer that, Ichigo.” Rukia ducks the swat he directs at her, trotting a few steps, and then pauses. Her eyes scan the sand, and she tips her head, frowning. “Should we separate?” she asks. “We only have a day before Akon reopens the gate.”

And Hueco Mundo has a lot of ground for them to cover, even if they’re sticking close to Las Noches. Ichigo scowls, all too able to remember what happened _last_ time they split up here, and that was with backup. He and Rukia are both captains now, and have been for decades, but it’s still an uncomfortable risk.

Still. Rukia’s more than capable of taking care of herself, and for all that she mostly has yuki onna blood, Ichigo is absolutely certain there’s something even more vicious in her as well. She’ll probably be fine, and if she isn’t, her shikai and bankai aren’t exactly subtle. Ichigo will notice.

“Yeah, that would probably work better,” he agrees, and when she casts him a veiled look he gives her a crooked half-smile. “Don’t get in too much trouble without me. Your brother isn’t here to bail you out this time.”

With an aggrieved huff, Rukia blows a strand of hair out of her eyes and leans over to punch him in the ribs. Lightly, thankfully, so Ichigo knows she took his point well enough. “And don’t _you_ go picking fights with every Arrancar in the area,” she retorts. “If you bring all of them down on us, the Captain-Commander is going to _laugh_ at us again.”

Ichigo grimaces, because that’s entirely true. Kyoraku likes to call them into his office after they’ve done something stupid and make them stand there while he giggles, which is utterly demeaning and something Ichigo would move the earth to avoid when at all possible. “_Ugh_,” he mutters, and Rukia grimaces in agreement.

“The palace or the forest?” she asks, forging on determinedly.

Ichigo doesn’t even have to consider that. If Grimmjow is around, he’ll be in Las Noches. “The forest,” he says, and Rukia pulls a face but nods.

“Be careful,” she says, reaching out.

Ichigo reaches back, clasping her wrist tightly and meeting her eyes. “You too,” he says, and smirks. “I’d hate to have to break in a new sparring partner.”

“Like you’d ever find one as good at predicting your idiocy as me,” Rukia says airily, and when Ichigo grinds his knuckles into the top of her head in retaliation she laughs, wriggles free, and flickers away in a burst of flash step almost as fast as Byakuya’s.

“Brat,” Ichigo says, even though she can’t hear him, and then sighs and pulls his hood up more firmly against the wind. The edge of the Menos Forest is close; he can see the branches thrust through the sand on the edge of the horizon, perfectly in line with the strange readings Akon has supposedly been picking up.

It seems a little bit like a waste, or maybe like dishonesty, for the Seireitei to be so concerned about Hueco Mundo right now, Ichigo thinks a little wearily. He lets shunpo carry him to the emerging branches, the brief gap in the sand where the earth opens up, and pauses there for a moment.

Thirty years since the last time Shinigami gave a damn about the Hollows here, but strange, flickering readings, far stronger than they should be, are enough to bring them back. Not any of the problems Aizen caused, not an attempt at understanding, just a threat.

Most of the time Ichigo loves being a Shinigami, and being a captain especially. All the things he saw wrong in Soul Society he can finally work to change, because Shunsui is on his side and more of the captains than not are his friends, but—sometimes it’s harder to be loyal than other times. Sometimes he remembers all the things that happened that made him look sideways at the Gotei 13 to begin with, and the fact that he hasn’t changed _enough_ grates like sandpaper across his skin.

Setting his jaw, Ichigo shifts Zangetsu so it will be easier to draw, wraps his cloak around himself, and drops through the gap. There’s a long, breathless moment of freefall, plummeting down feet-first towards something unknown, but Ichigo catches sight of the approaching branch, lands lightly, leaps off, and drops to the ground with a soft thump. It’s noticeably warmer down here, out of the wind, and some of the eternal moonlight filters down in gaps and patches, just enough to illuminate the forest floor. Ichigo can feel the hungry souls around him, the menos prowling through the trees, but a touch of Hollow reiatsu bleeding through keeps them at bay. Hollows are creatures of instinct, after all; they recognize a bigger predator is in their territory, but they also recognize that if they get too close, they’ll be its next victim.

But, Ichigo thinks, frowning. But there aren’t as many menos as he would expect after decades of freedom from Shinigami. There are _some_, but—a handful, maybe, in the area, and last time they were here there were so many Ichigo couldn’t turn around without tripping over a nest of them.

So something is either chasing the menos off or eating them. “Great,” Ichigo mutters, reaching back to touch his blade, and Zangetsu stirs, attentive, eager. Ichigo calms him with a thought, then keeps moving, slipping into the colonnade of trees as soundlessly as he can. If there _is_ something dangerous nearby, he doesn’t want to give it notice that he’s coming.

A trail of icy fingertips down his spine is the only tangible mark of Zangetsu’s presence as the merged spirit rises, a flicker of ghostly light beside Ichigo that only he can see. “Like being home,” the spirit says, and that smirk is all glass-sharp edges.

Maybe once it would have been enough to get a rise out of Ichigo, back when he was a teenager trying to deal with yokai instincts, Hollow urges, Shinigami powers, _Quincy _powers, and the fate of the world on his head. Now, though, he just rolls his eyes, reaching out to rap his knuckles against one twisted black horn.

“If you want to sleep underground in a forest with no sunlight, _ever_, be my guest,” he says dryly. “I’ll be back in the Seireitei, in my bed.”

Zangetsu scoffs, but he likes his creature comforts enough that he doesn’t argue. Flickers ahead for half an instant, a stray heat mirage in a frozen world, and then is back, eyes thoughtful.

“It’s empty,” he says.

“Almost,” Ichigo agrees grimly, and leaps up to the lower branches of a tree, trying to get more of a view. The trees block everything, though, and he crouches there for a moment, frowning. Closes his eyes, takes a breath, but—yokai senses aren’t helping, either, and his aren’t nearly as wide-reaching as Rukia’s sense of cold and moonlight. He can pick up a few scents, a few bits of metal from fallen swords and discarded uniforms, but little else.

“If a menos jumps out and yells _boo_, I’m going right the hell back to Soul Society,” Ichigo mutters, and drops back down, dissatisfied. “Where the hell _are_ all of them?”

Zangetsu snickers. “The Menos Forest really isn’t living up to its name,” he says almost gleefully, and darts ahead again. “Maybe another Muramasa moved in.”

Ichigo grimaces, letting out a heavy breath. He really hopes not, but there’s always a chance it’s something similar. Or maybe it’s like that guy who saved Rukia, the first time they were here—someone hunting menos could explain the quiet.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Ichigo catches a flicker of blue flame.

Instantly, startled, he spins, and Zangetsu vanishes back into his sword. Scans the trees, heartbeat just a little faster than it should be, but there’s no sign of movement. No hint of anyone else’s presence, and Ichigo forces himself to breathe in, breathe out, ease back. There’s nothing—

A dart of flame, a pale shape, darting between the trunks. Instantly, Ichigo flashes forward, around the far side, and throws himself right into the thing’s path, Zangetsu’s wrappings whirling off as the blade comes awake. Plants himself, ready, and—

Stops short, because it’s not a menos waiting there, not a human or a rogue Shinigami. A pale wolf looks up at him, limned in sky-blue flames, and cocks its head. There’s a piece of something in its mouth, dark and familiar, burning with power—a piece of a menos, torn off and carried away, like a real wolf would drag a leg back to the den. For a long, long moment, it stares at Ichigo, ears pricked, and then cocks its head. Makes a low sound, almost a whine, and slips past him at a run, quick and surefooted as it dodges around the trees.

“Hey!” Ichigo yelps, and follows. He has to use flash-step to keep up, especially because the wolf clearly knows where it’s going, and it’s faster than it should be. Faster than a low-level Hollow could ever _dream_ of being, and Ichigo frowns to himself, trying to judge its strength. Hard, since it feels like a fraction of a piece, a fragment of something larger that’s burning just out of sight. More than a little concerned, Ichigo wonders if it’s an Adjucas, or maybe a leftover from one of Aizen’s experiments. Maybe an Arrancar, or something close, or—

The wolf leaps an embankment, fords a shallow river on the other side, and bounds up a hill. At the top, dug into the earth, there’s a shallow cave, completely visible from where Ichigo is standing but deep enough to keep the rain off. Easily, the wolf pushes in, right past another identical animal, and drops its mouthful on top of the curled form in the center of the den.

The bit of power from the menos fragment shimmers, is drawn away. Sucked out, like water down into sand, and a rasping breath comes, low and relieved.

Slowly, Ichigo steps across the stream, mounts the bank. Watches, careful, eyes narrowed, as the form in the cave goes very, very still.

“You,” he says. “You’re the one who took Orihime to Aizen.”

Slowly, arduously, a dark head lifts, and the former Primera Espada looks at Ichigo with an expression of surprise that shifts slowly, darkly into grim resignation. He sits up, and it takes obvious effort, his wolves crowding around him and helping to push him upright. They feel like his power, like he’s split himself into pieces, and Ichigo remembers Shunsui saying something about that, mentioning a soul that had willingly fractured itself so it wasn’t alone. But—

Looking at Starrk now, the sense to painful solitude is almost tangible. Weighty, with a deep, drowning edge of despair, and it makes Ichigo’s breath catch in his throat, makes something curl in his chest that’s full of sharp edges.

“Shinigami,” Starrk says, and slumps forward, running a hand through his wild hair. The curl of his mouth is wry, almost rueful. “That took longer than I expected.”

Ichigo pauses, all too aware of two dozen eyes fixed on him, the weight of Starrk’s reiatsu. Not what he would have expected from Aizen’s top Espada, but still strong. Still heavy, to the point that Ichigo would probably call it crushing if his own didn’t outmatch it. Starrk isn’t moving, though, and neither are his wolves. Even Zangetsu is quiet in Ichigo’s head, watching instead of reacting.

“I didn’t realize we had an appointment,” Ichigo says dryly, and lowers Zangetsu, easing back as much as he can while still being ready to move. He’s quick enough that it doesn’t matter nearly as much as it could, but he still doesn’t want to get caught off guard.

Starrk is still just watching him, though. Still just looking, wolf-pale eyes and resignation and something tattered about him. Something torn, and Ichigo doesn’t think it’s the wolves around him. Those are natural, normal, a part of his power. But the ragged edge of him feels like a wound, gaping and raw and only just starting to heal.

It makes instinct stir, dark and hungry. Not Hollow instinct, though there’s maybe an edge of that to it as well. Something older, deeper in his bones, and it makes Ichigo take a breath, draw the power back. Vulnerable, that’s how Starrk looks right now, and in the middle of Hueco Mundo, with everything more vivid, after twenty years of living in Soul Society with its lack of restraint where yōkai instincts are concerned, Ichigo’s maybe not as good at control as he once was. Especially when faced with a situation like this.

“We didn’t,” Starrk says, and runs a hand over the back of one of his wolves. It presses close, crowding his shoulder, and Ichigo doesn’t miss the way it’s put itself right in between them. “But I didn’t think that Shinigami would let Hueco Mundo go unobserved forever. Not after Aizen.”

“Then why stay close to Las Noches?” Ichigo asks, studying him. He’s still in the rags of his Espada uniform, and there’s still blood on him, wet and fresh, like he hasn’t healed from his fight with Kyōraku even though it’s been decades.

Starrk snorts, resting his head on one hand like he can’t even manage to stay upright any longer. “I need the menos,” he says, and his mouth twists bitterly. Just for a moment, he closes his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his features. “That Shinigami captain, and the Vizards—they wounded me. I’m not as strong. But…”

“But eating the menos will make you stronger,” Ichigo finishes for him, eyeing the wolves. They must be hunting for him, tearing pieces off of stronger menos, taking down weaker ones to drag back, but—

Kyōraku has said, on nights when they’re drinking in his office and he lets himself slip back into memories, that Starrk was an understandable opponent. Someone he wouldn’t have fought if circumstances were different. Too strong, and unhappy to be that way. That he’s saying he’s too weak now—

He’s alone now, though. There were two parts of him that faced Kyōraku, and now the only thing Ichigo can sense is this part and the wolves.

“You’re trying to bring Lilynette back,” he realizes, and it twists sharp and gutting through him, the realization almost painful. Stares at Starrk, thinking of Yuzu, of Karin, of what he’d do to get them back if they were gone, and has to swallow.

Starrk meets his eyes, wry, and his smile is crooked. “All I ever used to want was to be weak,” he says, like it’s a confession. “But now I need to be strong to bring her back, and I can’t.”

That’s why he hasn’t healed. That’s why Ichigo can hardly feel his power, decent for an Arrancar but nothing like it should be. All of it is horded, shut away as he builds it up until he can split his soul again.

“You need more power,” he says, and it feels numb on his tongue. Starrk’s a Hollow, but—gods, Ichigo knows the desperation in his eyes, felt the same thing when Yuzu was taken to Hell, when Aizen took Orihime away in the middle of the night. “If you’re not as strong as you were the first time, when you try to bring her back…”

“She might be different,” Starrk confirms, and his eyes are perfectly unwavering. “I’ve found I care far less about the Hollows in this forest than I do about Lilynette, Shinigami. If my power destroys them, so be it.” A twist of his mouth, almost angry, almost resigned, and he breathes out. “Once she’s back, I can worry about being too strong then.”

For a long moment, Ichigo holds his gaze. Then, deliberately, he lets Zangetsu’s wrappings whirl back around it, and sets the blade aside, leaning up against a tree trunk. Steps forward, raising his hands to show they’re empty, and asks, “Can I help?”

Starrk stops. Freezes where he is, eyes widening. For a moment it hardly even looks like he’s breathing. Not about to hesitate, Ichigo closes the last few feet between them, then sinks down to one knee. Hesitates, but—there has to be some way of sharing reiatsu, right? Especially since he and Starrk are both powerful Hollows, too, on top of everything else. Hollows devour each other to gain strength, but surely there's another method somewhere.

“Help,” Starrk finally says, caught between wary and incredulous. “You want to help me bring another Hollow into the world, and increase my own power.”

“I want to help you get Lilynette back,” Ichigo corrects, rolling his eyes. he offers his hands, palm up, and says honestly, “I have no idea how, but if you know—”

Starrk's expression twists, and he draws back. The wolves slide away, rippling past Ichigo like a wash of reiatsu and fur as they retreat, and alone Starrk pushes up straighter, mouth a bitter line.

“You would have to let me eat you,” he says, a little dry. “And somehow I imagine there are several factions that would object to that.”

“That can't be the _only_ way,” Ichigo says, annoyed. “Look, if I just…” He reaches for Starrk's hand, reiatsu curling through his fingers, but only just manages to graze skin before Starrk is recoiling, wrenching his hand away.

“_No_,” Starrk says, incredulous, and glares at Ichigo like he’s done something terrible. “Hollows are almost pure _yōkai_.”

Ichigo blinks at him, bewildered. “Yeah,” he says, a little baffled by the reaction. “Obviously.”

Starrk grimaces at him, like he’s being unbearably slow. “Anyone with yōkai blood has the seed of a yōkai spirit in them, but it’s dormant until they die and the seed starts to grow,” he says. “Imagine that Shinigami are half yōkai spirit. Hollows are almost _full_ yōkai spirit.”

“I'm part Hollow,” Ichigo reminds him, but he pauses, considering. Nel and Grimmjow have been around enough that he’s seen their interactions, how they're different from Shinigami, from the basic souls in the Rukongai. The stronger captains have more instincts, are more in touch with the sides of themselves that are yōkai, but Grimmjow and Nel might as well _be_ yōkai most of the time.

“Just enough to make the instincts hard to deal with,” Starrk says, pained amusement, and rubs a hand over his forehead with a sigh. “Have you ever seen Hollows take a partner?”

The question is enough to make Ichigo splutter, flushing crimson as he reels back. “_What kind of question is that_?” he squawks. “Of course I haven’t _watched_.”

Starrk rolls his eyes. “Not like _that_,” he retorts. “The mingling. Their reiatsu. In the aftermath.”

A little startled, Ichigo pauses. Frowns, but—he actually knows what Starrk means. Nel and Grimmjow had gotten into a spat, yelling at each other about challenges and hunts, and then disappeared into Hueco Mundo for two weeks. When they’d come back, they’d both been thoroughly debauched, and Grimmjow was sporting marks like intricate tattoos on the side of his throat, a smug grin that had made Ichigo want to punch him on instinct. But their reiatsu—that had been different than normal. Intertwined, to the point that Ichigo couldn’t tell where Nel's ended and Grimmjow’s began.

“Oh,” he says, and frowns at Starrk. “So mingling reiatsu starts that?”

Starrk inclines his head. “It’s one step. Sex isn't required, even if it helps.”

Flushing, Ichigo drags a hand over his eyes, trying not to think about Nel and Grimmjow and what they must have gotten up to. Nel had very cheerfully invited him to join them once, before the marking thing, and Ichigo hadn’t taken her up on it, but he’d _thought_ about it. he’d thought about it a hell of a lot, and then again after they came back yōkai-married.

“It sounds,” he says determinedly, pushing past his embarrassment, “like mingling reiatsu is what you need, and I have more than enough. So why not?”

There's a long moment of silence, Starrk's pale eyes fixed on him, narrow and assessing. Then, deliberate, Starrk takes a breath and says, “Because of my blood. Because if you start something, I'm going to finish it, and never let you go.”

Ichigo rocks back on his heels, swallows. Looks at Starrk, at the wolves, and asks, “You’re…?”

“Descended from senbiki no ōkami,” Starrk finishes for him, and that smile is wry. “Wolves pick mates for life, Kurosaki.”

Ichigo knows the folktales—his father was always big on them, for reasons that are pretty obvious now. A thousand wolves, and with that in mind, both Starrk's loneliness and his Resurrección make far more sense. Plurality, power, and Starrk missing a piece of himself is a piece of the pack gone, a hole that can't be filled from the outside.

Lilynette is gone, and Starrk is doing whatever he can to get her back. Ichigo looks at the unhealed wounds, the raggedness of Starrk's appearance, and—it makes sense that his soul would latch on to anything that could be his. Not just a yōkai marriage, as common as those seem to be among Hollows. Something deeper, stronger. A few of the captains and lieutenants have relationships like that, and Ichigo has always _wanted_, in some place deep down inside of himself that’s wind and fur and teeth.

“Is there another way to give you my reiatsu?” he asks quietly, and when pale blue-grey eyes flicker up to meet his own, he holds Starrk's gaze. “The menos aren’t enough, and you can't hunt Adjuchas like you are. You need more than they can give you. I can help.”

“It’s _forever_,” Starrk says incredulously. “Are all Shinigami idiots?”

“Yeah,” Ichigo says immediately, because he’s _seen_ the people he works with. “Obviously.”

Starrk laughs like it’s been started out of him, warm and soft and surprised. Rakes a hand through his tangled hair, pushing it out of his face, and just for a moment it’s almost hard to breathe, looking at his face. Ichigo is used to beautiful people, because Soul Society is full of them, but there’s something raw about Starrk, something lost. _I want to help_, Ichigo thinks, and means it, right down to his bones.

“I have two little sisters,” he says quietly, and Starrk pauses, clearly listening. “If I lost either one of them, I’d do _anything_ to get them back, Starrk. And—I think you're the same.”

“Lilynette isn't my sister—”

“No,” Ichigo agrees. “She’s part of you. But do you really think my sisters aren’t part of _me_? Because they are. In every way that matters.” Reaching out, he touches the back of Starrk's hand, and this time Starrk doesn’t pull away, just looks at him, and there’s something like desperation or maybe hope burning dark in his eyes. “I _can_ help you get Lilynette back, so I should.”

“As simple as that?” Starrk asks wryly, and drags in a breath. Curls forward, just for a moment, and then lifts his head, and this time his eyes are bright with fervor.

“Someone better would say no,” he says, but he reaches out, curls a hand around Ichigo's elbow.

Ichigo snorts. “Good thing you're a Hollow, then, and more practical than that bullshit,” he counters, and Starrk laughs a little. Tugs, gentle, but Ichigo moves with it, slides closer, lets his fingers skim up Starrk's bare arm where the ragged sleeves of his robe have been shredded to practically nothing. He’s cool to the touch, which can't be right. Then again, he’s still bleeding, too, and likely has been for decades at this point. Ichigo isn't overly convinced that _anything_ about Starrk is healthy right now.

“Bullshit,” Starrk echoes. “I think you mean morals.”

“Self-sacrificing morals,” Ichigo corrects, annoyed. He drops his hand to Starrk's waist, right below what looks like a stab wound from a familiar sword, and snorts. “Never mind, I think you’ve got those down.”

“Glass houses.” Starrk tilts his head, studying Ichigo's face, and then asks, “Have you ever slept with another man?”

“I'm not a _monk_,” Ichigo says, rolling his eyes. Regardless of what Rukia accuses him of, he’s had his share of partners, and even if he’s easily embarrassed, he’s not sixteen anymore. “Have you?”

Starrk hums. “Grimmjow. And Gin, once,” he acknowledges, and Ichigo stops, startled. Gives Starrk an incredulous look, and gets a faint smirk in return. “Better than Yammy.”

“Stop talking,” Ichigo says, a plea, and Starrk laughs again.

He’s still laughing when Ichigo leans in, and carefully, gently fits their mouths together.

The feel of Starrk's breath catching is gratifying, as is the soft sound he makes as Ichigo coaxes his mouth open. His stubble is a faint, intriguing scratch, and his hair is soft when Ichigo gets a hand on the back of his head, guiding him closer. His reiatsu curls beneath his skin, tangible where Ichigo's fingers press against revealed skin, and the edge of it is heavy, corrosive, but it’s nothing like it should be. Nothing like Ichigo felt in that one instant Starrk appeared during his fight, taking Orihime away.

“You're warm,” Starrk rasps as they separate, and he sounds startled. Lifts a hand, rubbing at his mouth, and then takes a breath. Eyes Ichigo's mouth like he’s planning another kiss, but slants a look up at him instead, narrow and wary. “You're sure.”

It’s a question that wants to be a statement, and Ichigo raises a brow at him. “I thought you were too smart to question it,” he reminds Starrk, and gets a wry smile in return.

“Too desperate,” Starrk counters, but takes a breath. Smiles, crooked, and says, “I want you,” like it’s a confession.

“Good,” Ichigo says, a little roughly. Can't quite manage to think clearly, but touches Starrk's cheek, watches the way his lashes dip as he turns his head, catching Ichigo's thumb between his teeth. His mouth is hot, and there’s an edge of sharp canines, a touch of tongue. “I—you too.”

It’s just something physical, right now. Just wanting to help, accepting help, a means to an end. But Starrk wants him, and Ichigo can feel claws and fangs and wind with teeth inside his soul, the growl of a tiger in cold mountain air. Something in him can _feel_ Starrk in front of him, battered but still standing, seeking his strength, the threads of reiatsu tangling around his fingers where he’s touching, sparking across their lips. He wants, too, wants less in a physical way, though Starrk is handsome and there’s certainly part of that. But—

Ichigo's reiatsu is a mishmash, a tangle at the best of time. Hollow and Quincy and Shinigami, the yōkai blood of his father’s family threading them together, the yōkai from his mother’s side a silver current underneath, like a flash of scales deep beneath the water. But something about Starrk pulls the power in, regardless of the origin. Wraps it around him, like he can't feel the differences or just doesn’t care, and it’s logical with reiatsu as rough and dense as Starrk's but still a revelation. Still _hot_, fire curling across Ichigo's skin, blue-white with heat, with an echo of it in Starrk's eyes.

A snort, soft, amused, and Starrk leans in. kisses Ichigo again, a lazy, leading slant of lips with a flicker of tongue to tease more than anything, and then he falls back, sprawls on the sand ground and looks up at Ichigo through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Skin contact makes it easier,” he says.

Inhaling takes effort. Ichigo's mouth is dry, and he leans over Starrk, settling with one knee between his thighs. Braces his hand beside Starrk's broad shoulders, letting his other touch, and—

Reaches, like before. Curls his own reiatsu around Starrk's, feeling the hungry, eager way it leaps between them, latches on to Starrk's power and sinks in. Starrk makes a sharp sound, shivering, and his lashes flutter for a moment, fall, rise. his eyes are blown dark, and his next breath is ragged.

“Oh,” he says, and Ichigo watches him swallow, realizes with sudden, breathless intent that he wants to put his _teeth_ there.

Instead, he kisses Starrk again, settling his hand more firmly against his side. Traces the curve of his ribs as a hand settles on his back, an arm curls over his shoulders to pull him down more firmly. Starrk's mouth is sweet, the drag of his tongue drawing Ichigo in, the breadth of his body solid, tempting. Ichigo wants to strip every last layer off of him, see that skin whole and unwounded, wants to dig his teeth in and hold Starrk still and _take_ while Starrk comes apart. Desire is a blade, cutting, leaves him winded, and he nips at Starrk's lower lip, lets his teeth graze—

Starrk _groans,_ guttural and low, and tips his head back, letting Ichigo kiss his throat, lay his mouth over the pulse fluttering there. It’s as if every point of connection between them is a conduit; Ichigo feeds his power through fingertips, through the press of his knee between Starrk's legs, through the light, lingering touch of teeth against Starrk's throat. Fingers twist in his hair as Starrk gasps, twist, _pull_, and Ichigo's breath hitches at the spark of almost-pain. A growl rumbles up through his throat, not human, not even Hollow, and Starrk laughs raggedly, wolf-eyes and sharp teeth and the wild, restless, devouring edge of his reiatsu rising to take Ichigo's own.

“More,” he says, and Ichigo shudders, has to close his eyes. Kisses the hollow of Starrk's throat, slow, deliberate, and can feel the pace of his heart pick up.

“You’re hurt,” he says, all too aware of the smell of blood in the air, the way his reiatsu is drawn to Starrk's injuries, sinking in, speeding up the healing he hasn’t allowed himself.

With an aggrieved sound, Starrk shifts under him. Instantly, Ichigo growls, shoves him back down before he can think, and then freezes. Closes his eyes, cursing himself, because losing control is going to get someone hurt and he _can't_—

Starrk shivers, breath hitching, and his hands tug harder at Ichigo's hair. “You,” he starts, then pauses, closing his eyes. Takes another breath, looks up, and his smile is a wry slant. “If you were waiting for someone who could take your Hollow and your yōkai side,” he says dryly, “I have good news for you.”

Ichigo snorts before he can help himself, folds down to settle his elbows, fingers finding another rent in Starrk's uniform. He touches the dip of his sternum, slides his hand down, and watches with interest as Starrk shifts. Not to move away, this time, but he slides a leg over Ichigo's, hooks a knee behind his thigh.

“You might not say that later,” he tells Starrk, and that’s wry too, rueful. Even Kenpachi has a hard time handling him when he goes all-out in a fight. even Shinji called his yōkai side scary, and even if Shinji would normally do anything to mess with him, that time Ichigo knows he was telling the truth.

There's a pause, and then Starrk raises a brow at him. “I'm a Vasto Lorde,” he says simply.

Ichigo isn't surprised. He’d thought that Aizen had found a few, kept the most powerful Espada in the top ranks. Nel and Harribel had more or less proven it, and Ulquiorra as well. They were at a different level than Nnoitra and the rest, looked at the world in a different way.

“And my great-grandfather was Byakko,” he returns, but—

Starrk doesn’t looks surprised, just thoughtful. Amused, too, and he tilts his head, a sound of acknowledgement soft in his throat. “No wonder Aizen was interested in you,” he says.

Ichigo makes a face. “No talking about Aizen, either,” he says, and Starrk chuckles.

“Then distract me,” he retorts, and that’s hardly a challenge Ichigo is going to back down from. He kisses Starrk again, deepening it, dragging his power up and letting it flood into Starrk. Rides the muffled cry it gets him, the full-body jerk. Watches his eyes widen, then fall shut as he shudders in Ichigo's arms, and can't breathe for the force of the want in him.

A sharp tug tears Starrk's coat down the center, drags the shreds off of him completely. Ichigo gets his hands on bare skin, muscle, drags his fingertips across the curve of Starrk's body, muffles his low, intent sound. There's a hand on his shihakusho, pulling the top free, gripping the tie of his hakama, and Starrk breathes, “I hope you don’t mind quick.”

“This time,” Ichigo tells him, and it’s good enough for now, something rough and hurried, but he wants Starrk back in his bed in the Eighth. Wants him spread out, with plenty of time to take him apart and watch every moment of his reactions, safe in a place that’s wholly Ichigo’s.

Starrk groans at that, kisses Ichigo again, teeth and hunger and the edge of his rising reiatsu. It burns, hot, scrapes across Ichigo's skin, but it’s still not enough to touch his own reiatsu, not enough to break through. Ichigo sets his teeth against Starrk's throat, pressing a thumb right against the waistband of his pants, and presses his tongue to the warming skin. Wants to bite, but instead holds himself back, pressing more power between them. The air around them is swimming with it, a heat haze in shades of blue, and Ichigo spares a thought to hope Rukia doesn’t feel it and come to investigate, but he can't concentrate on more than that momentary passing wish.

Under his hand, though, Starrk's wounds are healing, closing up, and there’s still power to spare. Still more reiatsu, and Ichigo's been holding himself back for so long that it’s almost bewildering to let go, to let the waterfall of his own strength loose and know that it’s _wanted_.

More than wanted, going by the way Starrk groans, the way his eyes dilate. He shudders, and Ichigo can feel his hardness against his thigh, can taste the desire in his kiss. The arm around his shoulder tugs him closer, and the hand on his stomach slides down, pulling his hakama loose and dragging over his cock, light, exploratory.

With a groan, Ichigo drops his forehead against Starrk's shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Trying not to let his eyes cross, too, because Starrk's touch on his shaft is curious, teasing, the drag of his thumb across the head, callused fingers on his shaft, and light, grazing touch across his balls.

“Hell,” Ichigo breathes, and groans at the light tug Starrk gives him. There’s heat winding tighter in his gut, edging up towards overwhelming, and he cups Starrk's cock through his pants, drags his mouth over a hard nipple. Starrk shivers, moans, and his hand drops away, dragging a sound of protest out of Ichigo's throat.

Before he can do anything else, though, Starrk's hand curls around the back of his neck, and he says raggedly, “I want you to take me.”

Ichigo groans, gripping Starrk's hip tightly. “Are you sure?” he asks, even though he wants that, too. Almost desperately. But then, he wants most things with Starrk, and he’s not overly picky right now. “I can—or like this—”

With a quiet snort, Starrk urges him off, rolls over. rises up on his knees to strip his pants off, and gives Ichigo a look over his shoulder that’s half smirk and half challenge. “Have you ever topped before?”

“Of course I have,” Ichigo huffs, even though his ears feel hot as he watches Starrk slide out of the last of his clothes. He’s beautiful, scarred and strong, and Ichigo fits himself up against his back before he can think better of it, tangles his fingers in that long hair and pulls it to the side, kissing his throat. Starrk tips his head back, giving him more room, and grinds back against Ichigo's cock in a deliberate motion.

There’s oil in one of Ichigo's pockets, meant for chapped hands in the desert’s cold, and he’s never been happier for Isane’s mother-hen tendencies, even if this definitely isn't how she expected him to use it. Grabbing it, lets his hakama slide the rest of the way down, then loops his arms around Starrk's waist. Starrk's firm body fully against him is a distraction, though, and Ichigo can't help but press his palm against Starrk's stomach, slide it up. Has to touch, to explore, and the planes of Starrk's body are too much to resist, the little breaths and the soft wounds he makes when Ichigo finds sensitive spots all the more intriguing. Sinking back on his heels, Ichigo pulls Starrk down with him, settles him in his lap as he kisses the curve of his shoulder, and Starrk is a big man, lean but strong, and it’s heady to wring a cry from him with a curl of his hand, a tug of his fingers.

As deftly as he can, Ichigo unscrews the lid of the little jar, slicks his fingers. Grazing his teeth across Starrk's shoulder, he presses a kiss to the top of his spine, the curve of his throat, and says, “Tell me if I go too fast.”

Starrk huffs, pressing back into the hand Ichigo slips down the curve of his ass. “You're going too slow,” he says, pointed. “I'm—_ah_.”

Ichigo smirks against his skin, a finger pressing deep. A guttural groan drags from Starrk's throat, and he rolls his hips back into the press as Ichigo pushes the oil deep, hisses as Ichigo withdraws to get more. Ichigo slides two right back into him, and Starrk's low sigh as he rides them lazily has no right to be so hot.

Carefully, deliberately, Ichigo spreads his fingers, works them apart a few times to feel the give of Starrk's muscles, then hooks them as he drags back down, and Starrk _gasps_. Shudders, arching his back, grinding down, and Ichigo presses a third finger in, shoves deep all at once, and smiles at the cry that catches in Starrk's throat. His eyes are closed, his face slack as he rides Ichigo's fingers, and Ichigo rests his cheek against his skin, pressing deep, twisting, shoving back in, and he watches Starrk take his pleasure.

Final, reluctantly, he slides his fingers all the way out, reaching for the oil again. When Starrk makes a dazed sound of protest, grabbing for his wrist, Ichigo catches his hand, kisses the nape of his neck.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and when Starrk shoots him a narrow look, he snorts. “I can finger you until you come, if that’s what you want, but I thought you actually wanted another part of me in you.”

Starrk's laugh is a rough thing. He slides a hand down between his thighs, gripping Ichigo's cock. “This,” he agrees, and the next look he slants Ichigo is languid, heavy, amused by the way he chokes when Starrk's hand tightens around his cock. A little desperately, Ichigo pushes his fingers away, smears slick across his shaft only to have Starrk take him again, guide his cock up until it’s pressing against his hole. There’s a moment of pressure, resistance as Starrk rocks down, and then a sharp, low sound as his body gives way.

Ichigo groans, burying his face between Starrk's shoulder blades as that vise-like heat clamps down on him, so desperately tight and hot. The long, slow slide down his cock makes Ichigo's breath tangle in his lungs, makes his fingers clamp down on Starrk's hips tight enough to bruise as he fights to keep from moving, but Starrk doesn’t hesitate, takes him all the way to the hilt and then settles against his thighs, breathing hard, head tipped back, throat working.

“Oh,” he finally manages, and Ichigo laughs, wrapping his arms around Starrk's chest, leaning back a little. Starrk groans, body clenching around Ichigo, but he settles on his knees, legs tucked alongside Ichigo's thighs, and rocks slightly, testing. The angle is probably sharp, and Ichigo splays his fingers over Starrk's skin, closes his eyes. lets his reiatsu twist around them, the weight of it channeled, directed as best Ichigo can, and Starrk grunts as it slides beneath his skin, twists around his own like a lock into a tumbler.

It’s intimate. As intimate as sex, for all it’s different, and Ichigo slides a hand up, curling it around Starrk's throat gently, so gently, to feel his racing pulse, to feel the shudder as he makes small, desperate sounds as the barbs of Ichigo's immense reiatsu sink under his skin. Ichigo pushes, pushes, feels Starrk's reiatsu open to him the same way his body did, and groans. Can't resist the urge to rock forward, pulling Starrk down on his lap, and hears the jagged cry that cracks from Starrk's throat as he takes the first thrust.

_Want_ is a thing that feels like _mine_, feels like teeth in Starrk's throat, like Ichigo's reiatsu curled in his soul. Ichigo curses breathlessly, thrusts forward, and Starrk rocks back to meet him, gasping, shoving down, trying to get more. His body doesn’t want to let go, and Ichigo can't bring himself to put space between them. There’s a growl bubbling up in his chest, wind and fur and silver claws, and he hauls Starrk back on his cock, rolls his hips without pulling out, and lets Starrk's startled, stuttering moan drive him faster. Pushes deeper even as Starrk shoves back, as desperate for it as Ichigo is, and his own reiatsu is latching on, twisting through Ichigo's, an active exchange. Its rough edges are teeth, are power, are feeding that sense of _mine_ in a way Ichigo's never felt before.

Grabbing Ichigo's forearms, Starrk pulls them tight around himself, then curls forward, and Ichigo follows, not letting their bodies separate, not letting go as Starrk falls onto his hands and knees, as Ichigo covers him, drags his head around, kisses him. it’s sloppy, the angle imperfect, but the drag of their mouths makes Ichigo groan, makes him curl tighter over Starrk's back.

“Okay?” he asks breathlessly.

Starrk's breath is too light for a sigh, all pleasure as he rocks back into Ichigo. “Good,” he agrees, and Ichigo draws out, thrusts back in with a groan. Wraps an arm beneath Starrk's chest, up over his shoulder, palm pressed flat against his collarbone, and the tingle off reiatsu against his palm makes him think of the mark Nel left on Grimmjow’s throat, a clear sign that she’d taken a husband. A yōkai wedding ring, with hers inked into the curve of her breast right above her heart, and Ichigo hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away the first time he saw the matching marks.

He doesn’t let himself make the mark. This is to give Starrk power, to help him. It’s not an invitation to do whatever he wants. Breathing out sharply, Ichigo presses his forehead to Starrk's shoulder, shoves in hard, draws back. Starrk's cries are twisting up his spine, making it harder to draw in air, making it harder not to just shove him down and _take_ without care. Ichigo groans, lets himself fuck Starrk almost the way he wants to, pushing those cries up into sharp little hitching things. Drags him back, pushes in, grips his cock—

With a cry that breaks in the middle, Starrk comes. Curls over Ichigo's hand, spilling over it, over the ground, and Ichigo feels the sudden clench of his body, the way his reiatsu _snaps_, shattering into Ichigo's until he can't tell them apart, and it feels like a bolt of fire down his spine, a sharp shock that drags right out of his dick. Hauling Starrk back, he buries his face in his hair, grits his teeth, and comes so hard his vision swims black for a long, breathless moment as he spills himself into Starrk.

Finally, with a groan, Starrk sinks down, and Ichigo follows him, keeps his arms around him as he settles them on their sides, still pressed up against Starrk, still inside of him. doesn’t want to pull out yet, and from the way Starrk tangles their legs, sinks against his chest, he’s not alone.

Definitely not alone, he thinks, brushing Starrk's hair away from his face. Not alone ever again, if he can have a say in it.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly, and means less something physical and more the reiatsu humming around them, strong enough to make the trees shiver.

Starrk's huff of laughter is almost soundless, and he turns his head where it’s pillowed on Ichigo's arm, smiles just faintly. “Like before,” he says, the words slow, almost lazy. Letting himself slump, he hums, closes his eyes. “Like before I separated with her.”

Ichigo rubs a thumb over his hip, watching Starrk's peaceful face. Smooths his hair back again, then presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“I know it’s just for Lilynette,” he starts.

Starrk cuts him off with a hum. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t think I could survive it,” he says dryly. “And this part is hardly objectionable.”

Ichigo can't help a sound of amusement, but he sinks down, letting his fingers skim Starrk's healed side as he relaxes. “Hopefully we can manage more than that,” he says dryly. “Seeing as we’re married.”

Starrk's grunt is unimpressed. “Everything gets better with practice,” he says, a hand curling over Ichigo's. “And this is already good.”

Ichigo supposes it is. He tightens his arms around Starrk, breathing in the smell of his hair, and wonders when he can bring up makes. The idea of Starrk wearing his, either somewhere visible or somewhere hidden, makes pleasure curl through his veins, the tiger under his skin content with the thought.

“Come home with me?” he asks, and the words are rough in his throat. “Back to the Seireitei. Grimmjow and Nel already practically live there. You won't be alone. You and Lilynette both.”

There's a long, long moment of silence, and then a breath. Starrk's fingers thread through Ichigo's, and he says quietly, without any edge of doubt, “Yes.”


End file.
